Time for a Brewsky
by Something Less Than Epic
Summary: Before setting out on a fateful journey, three men stop in for a pint.


It was, most certainly, a first for Braska, soon-to-be bringer of the Calm.  
  
The same could be said for young Auron, an idealistic monk with nerves of steel and a sense of humour so dull it could scarcely cut butter.  
  
Such sentiments could surely not, however, be mirrored by their new companion, who had coaxed the two men out on the town in the first place.  
  
"Drink up, ya stiff bastards! Who knows when we'll be doin' it again!"  
  
Auron was suitably horrified when his blindfold was removed by the loud- talking Jecht, his most recent and decidedly greatest pain-in-the-ass since becoming a warrior monk of Yevon, with a small flourish of a hand. Before his eyes stood, in huge, ember letters, 'The Bevelle Brewsky'.  
  
"Oh dear Yevon, no."  
  
Braska merely gazed at it in bewildered silence. He'd never been in a bar before, either. Beside him, still grasping two partially twisted strips of cloth, was Jecht, grinning with all the sadism of a hyena. He had managed to persuade both men into following him out of the temple for the night, as a final farewell to Bevelle before setting out on their grand pilgrimage. It had not occurred to him, of course, that his drinking days were soon to be numbered after a fateful encounter with a gigantic Shoopuf, and even had it, Jecht would hardly have paid the thought any attention. He wanted to get nose down, toilet retching, extreme hangover inducing drunk.  
  
And he wanted his new pals to do it with him.  
  
Auron, from the very outset, was quite decided on the subject. "No."  
  
Braska was oddly contemplative, his usually decorative robe temporarily replaced by common cotton and leather tresses, and continued to be silent.  
  
Jecht, however, true to his ever forceful and adamant form, insisted. "C'mon, Auron, loosen up for a bit. I thought you were some kinda heavy drinker, what with that stupid jug you lug around all the time."  
  
"That's just water-"  
  
"Suuuuure, I believe you." Jecht grinned a roguish grin, cracking his neck in that unbearable way that had made Auron cringe constantly over the last few days. The sound it made was disgusting. "Well, I ain't leavin' here without getting tanked at least once, and I need a pair of bodies to carry me home, y'know? All while you're here, you two can get in on the fun. Everybody wins, dammit!"  
  
Auron, protesting largely in vain, attempted to counter. "We have a big day tomo-"  
  
Jecht resorted to his typical name-calling. "You bloody pansy-"  
  
Braska waved a hand in the air and, with his usual calm, responded simply with "Let us give it a try."  
  
There was utter silence for a few seconds.  
  
Auron looked incredulous. His lip twitched involuntarily. Jecht's face flicked from annoyance to slack-jawed awe, and then, within moments, flew into a booming, victorious bellow. "Ahhhhhhh, damn right, Braska!" He pumped the air with a fist and hopped up and down, bandana swishing in the cool night sky. "Daaaaamn right!"  
  
Auron slumped, his eyes wide. "My lord. . . why. . .?"  
  
Braska, his lips curling upwards ever so slightly, favoured Auron with a glance. "I really have always wanted to try some alcohol. This is my last journey, after all; can I not indulge myself on it just a little bit?"  
  
Auron simply stared at him, his face contorting quickly into one of resigned defeat. Jecht took advantage of his expression and tossed an arm over the poor monk's shoulder. "C'mon, ya big baby, buck up. Who knows, maybe you'll have a bit more charm when you're sauced, and we can get you lai-"  
  
A sudden, clenched fist interrupted Jecht's last word, and off he bounced, a vicious pain in his cheek. Auron paid him no more attention, cursing loudly as he was, and simply regarded his Summoner with dismay.  
  
"Are you sure, my lord?"  
  
Braska nodded. "Will you do me the honour of having a drink with me, Auron?"  
  
Auron, sighing sadly, nodded. "Yes, sir."  
  
---  
  
The Brewsky was a huge pub, filled with raucous crowds of every race, age, and disposition. Pale, spherical lights hung lazily overhead, swinging in the smoky air. Each table was adorned with a large, glowing, opal crystal: most of them were spotted with flecks of food and spilled booze, detracting from their usual beauty. Off to the side, behind the bar, absolutely enormous bear barrels stood in a row, with dully gleaming taps constantly flowing forth with alcohol.  
  
The bartender was a huge Ronso named Ja'mair, whose single eye watched every new customer with an affected disdain. A very un-Ronsolike apron was strapped limply over his broad shoulders, giving him possibly the silliest look in the whole place. Owing to his gigantic muscles, however, no one dared to crack a joke, not unless they were well known and liked by the Ronso.  
  
The Luca Goers had currently taken up residence in one corner, surrounded by several drunken fans. They were all singing some ridiculous song extolling the worldly virtues of blitzball: "Toss that ball up, and knock it away,  
Sling it, punch it, on into the fray,  
Kick all their asses, and drink to the day  
That some lucky blitzballer  
With a hoot and a holler  
Knocks that ball up Sin's nose, ah, that be the day. . ." It really made little sense, if one heard the whole song, let alone this tiny section: but it seemed to make the whole crowd happy, and nobody bothered to request that they knock it off.  
  
Off in another corner sat a group of Al Bhed, keeping largely to themselves: they constituted the absolute minority in this city, and being rather prejudiced against by Yevonites everywhere for their continued use of Machina, were wise in maintaining a low profile. Few people ever cast favourable glances in their direction, and they knew it.  
  
Auron was like a fish out of water. He looked at everything with an equal mixture of disgust and undiluted horror.  
  
Braska appeared to be quite curious, and unlike Auron, managed to maintain a relatively unbiased view of his surroundings.  
  
Jecht had three large pints of pearly green liquid – one balanced precariously on his head – moments after entering. He seemed to strike an instant rapport with the big Ronso behind the bar, who had gladly served up the trio of jugs and even trusted Jecht not to drop the third.  
  
"Maybe they can smell their own kind," Auron muttered under his breath. "Where the devil did you get money to buy those, Jecht?"  
  
"I slipped a couple'a coins out've your little pouch thingy. Thanks, by the way." His pearly teeth flashed Auron once again, followed soon by a large pint thrust into the monk's hands. "Drink up, Auron, my boy!"  
  
Braska received his pint with decidedly less disgust. He peered into the concoction, and was more amazed than the general observer by what he saw: the bubbles in the fresh, emerald beer, dancing about in a randomized harmony, seemed to hypnotize the Summoner. Tiny white rings floated about, burbling and bursting into large, frothy bubbles. Throughout it swam sparkling orbs, blazing dark violet trails. They looked rather like the unsent, and created an overall mystical effect.  
  
"Is this magic?" He wondered. He wanted to inquire to Jecht as to his query, but Jecht would hardly have known the logistics of Spira's beer; and, of course, there was the fact that Jecht had already vanished somewhere. And so had Auron, for that matter.  
  
---  
  
The swordsman had found himself separated from both of his companions, one desired and the other simply despised, as a large rush of latecomers, fresh from a local Guado's birthday party, burst into the tavern, and lingered at the entrance. The last Auron saw of Braska was the Summoner staring, as though hypnotized, into his beer, before being eclipsed by a pair of Ronsos. By the time Auron made his way around the furry giants, Braska was gone, striking Auron with a sense of panic that nearly made him drop his pint. What kind of Guardian was he, that he'd lost his Summoner before the pilgrimage had even begun-  
  
Those thoughts were diverted by the intervention of a rather lusty female Guado, full-chested and ready to roll, who practically leaped on Auron and spent the next half hour making the day seem both like hell on Spira and the best night of his life, depending on how empty his pint was at the time.  
  
---  
  
Braska, still clearly enamoured by his beer, had simply stepped away from the Ronsos, Auron forgotten, and headed off to the counter. Ja'mair watched his progress with a steady, unwavering eye, already registering Braska as a complete novice. Braska seated himself in front of the big Ronso, adjusting his stool as best he could, and tried to ask about the ale he had yet to even sip from.  
  
"Guh?" was all that Ja'mair replied with.  
  
"This beer," Braska persisted, "is it magical? Because it looks like magic."  
  
Ja'mair slipped the mug from Braska's hands, peering into it. Plain, ordinary Kilika beer, with a tinge of emerald and the occasional bubble. "Guh?" he asked again.  
  
"Look at it. I can see odd, flying orbs within it. It creates a spectacular effect. I was going to compliment you on the presentation." Braska seemed to be somewhat nervous now, as the Ronso did not appear to understand exactly what this tiny human was attempting to convey.  
  
". . . guh?"  
  
---  
  
Jecht was mocking the Goers and inciting a general riot, claiming that their song "sucked", and that his Jecht Shot could "take you all to school". ---  
  
His new companion had dragged over Auron to a nice, amply lighted niche, her intentions still seemingly unknown to the poor man. Thin, pale fingers stroked the front of his crimson jacket, peeling it back further than usual. For perhaps the first time in his career, Auron made sure to do it up, covering all skin but his face and insisting that she cease and desist immediately.  
  
Unfortunately, several other Guado females – presumably her friends – managed to mob Auron, and, finding him equally attractive, joined in on the act. Auron was out to sea without a paddle, and seemed, very rapidly, to be drowning. After a few minutes, his beer, as a means of escape, looked rather attractive.  
  
After several large gulps of it, the Guado started to look rather attractive, too.  
  
---  
  
"Look carefully. Can't you see those tiny spheres in there? They look just like unsent." Braska pointed in vain, tracing the path of a particularly large one along the chilled surface of the mug.  
  
Ja'mair handled the beer once again, twisting it this way and that. He eyed it very closely, checking for any signs of his claim. Every tiny nuance of the glass went into account. He took the quality of his ale very seriously, after all, and contamination was a big problem in his mind.  
  
There was naught that filled the air for those few moments but the ordinary din of the pub. Somewhere in the distance, a loud crash resounded, and bellowing laughter followed.  
  
". . . you sure you haven't had few pints before coming here, funny man?"  
  
Braska sighed in utter, displeased exasperation. Giving up, he retrieved his beer, and, looking around for his departed friends briefly, took a long, hard swig of it.  
  
---  
  
In his rather naïve and inexperienced way, Auron, breath tainted by alcohol, was coming on to his Guado following. They all thought him to be rather sweet, dead sexy, and worthy of a round in bed.  
  
---  
  
A mere twenty minutes had passed since the trio had entered. Auron had his second pint in hand, served to him by one of his rather buxom Guado girls; Jecht was engaged in a plot with the Al Bhed whose table he had crashed into; and Braska, still wondering over his beer while quite enjoying the taste, had an epiphany.  
  
---  
  
"Barkeep! I have it!" He tugged on Ja'mair's apron, bringing himself to the attention of the big Ronso. Ja'mair sighed heavily and turned to the annoying human.  
  
"What you want, dummy?"  
  
"I think these really are unsent in my glass. I can see them in everyone's mug."  
  
"Guh?"  
  
"This vintage is from Kilika, correct?"  
  
Ja'mair only nodded.  
  
"Well. I have read that Kilika has a rather distinct problem with their local insect population. They get into the food and, well, die there. Particularly a certain species, the local Gariwath gnat-"  
  
"You saying there dead bugs in beer?"  
  
"Yes, exactly!"  
  
Ja'mair snorted loudly at the thought. "Then why Ja'mair not see these flying orbs?"  
  
Braska, grinning widely at his discovery, related with relish the rest of his epiphany. "Well, you see, I'm actually a member of the local Yevon temple. I have been exposed to unsent many, many times over my life. When one is in such constant contact, they come to see all the unsent in an area, or to be more specific, those souls that fall below human notice most of the time-"  
  
"Bugs."  
  
"Yes! Bugs!"  
  
Ja'mair considered this a moment. "You Summoner?"  
  
Braska, somewhat uncertain, hesitatingly nodded. "Keep it to yourself, though."  
  
Ja'mair considered it some more. He turned, gazing at the giant kegs that lined the wall. His eye ran across every faucet, every mug, every bottle of D'jose Tequila or Zanarkand Fine Wine ('Get that holy taste today!'). And, when it came to rest, it was on Braska's beer.  
  
His next word came with complete and utter gravity, conveying all his emotion and feeling in a single, simple syllable.  
  
"Ew."  
  
---  
  
The Al Bhed had, fortuitously enough, been the Al Bhed Psyches, and were the defeated participants of a local, ocean-based game against the Goers: so, putting their technology and Jecht's knack for throwing caution to the wind, the whole lot managed to send the Goer's table flying into the ceiling with a nice, contained explosion. The Psyches vanished soon after. That, coupled with the realization that his newly imported Kilika beer was riddled with dead insects, convinced Ja'mair that it was time to close shop for the night.  
  
---  
  
Auron never did manage to bed one of the Guado women. His good sense, both as a warrior and a disciple of Yevon - or perhaps it was the table that had just crashed into the high-vaulted ceiling, sobering him up slightly - steered his morals back into view just as one of the girls had her fingers crawling steadily towards his crotch. He fled, but not before emptying the last of his pint into his gullet. Needless to say, alcohol managed to work its way into his jug from that day on, even if he rarely partook of it.  
  
---  
  
Ja'mair thanked Braska profusely – for a Ronso, anyway – and promptly kicked everybody out. His pub went out of business the very next day.  
  
---  
  
The three men managed to reunite outside the bar, after several minutes of confused movement on the part of other departing patrons. Auron, quite wordlessly, smacked Jecht in the face again: Jecht moaned loudly about not having gotten even a single sip of his beer: and Braska commented that the loud, surly blitzballer was a better man for having not. 


End file.
